


The Highland Drake

by Samhildanach



Category: Dungeon Siege (Video Games)
Genre: BUT ALSO REALLY FUNNY, Casual Sex, F/M, Gyorn is a Drunk, I kinda went a little nuts, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Magism, Merik is a son of a bitch, Nicknames, Orphaned Protagonist, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, POV Third Person Limited, Rusk is a Drunk, Third Person POV uses nicknames, Ulora is Canonically Worthless When You Meet Her, and other people I don't remember the names of are in it too, as in racism against mages, but also stronger than Merik when you meet him, i'll fight you on that, if the farmer isn't Atlan then who the heck is and why did a bear steal his armor, my first time tagging anything, no resurrect scrolls, not a self insert but more like the protagonist is the author's surrogate, protagonist is not racist, resurrection is not a level 4 spell, there aren't any hookers in dungeon siege and I don't buy that for a second, unreliable point of view, what the hell is a mule dung seller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samhildanach/pseuds/Samhildanach
Summary: A novelization of Dungeon Siege I. I realize that the protagonist is supposed to be a woman, but that's not what I felt like writing. Who know's if there'll ever be another chapter.
Comments: 1





	1. One Humble Farmer

**Author's Note:**

> A novelization of Dungeon Siege I, a game with sparse, but extremely funny, dialogue. So, I felt like I practically had to expand on it. Mostly inspired by the fact that someone's armor is in that bear's cave in the beginning of the game; someone named Atlan. Is he the man who made the armor, or the man who wore it? This story explores one of those options.

A tall young man of years not greater than two and twenty stood over his fields, hoe in hand, looking for any place he could improve upon. It was late summer, and in just a few weeks time, the fall harvest would arrive. After it came, he could sell his produce in Stonebridge, a town only a dozen or so miles' trek from his farm.

This year, he was being even more obsessive over his farm than usual, as he desperately needed any extra money he could earn. It was not least because all his tools were dull and warped, but because he needed to purchase new arms and armor.

Unlike other farmers, he had need of sword and leather because he was the one amongst his neighbors chosen to deal with any threatening 'problems' that arose in their habitations. As an upper farmland resident, bandits and highwaymen posed no threat, as such ne'er-do-wells would far rather steal from the wealthy and the weak, not the near impoverished but labor-forged highland farmers.

No, his enemies were not man, dwarf, elf, goblin, krug, or any of the other peoples of Aranna, but rather starved wolves and the occasional bored bear. Wolves did not attack people unless they had no choice, and bears hardly deigned to bother the evidently not very tasty personage of the highlands. But when these beasts did encroach upon the safety of the farmers, it was his duty to vanquish them. He was paid by the farmers he represented, of course, but they had little to spare, and so it was that he needed extra money to afford his arms and armor.

This handsome man of black hair and short beard would have loved to use a bow to take down his furry foes from afar, but arrows were expensive, and could only be used so many times before they had to be replaced. He would have to train endlessly to hunt effectively, for any animal who posed a threat enough to warrant his attention would certainly not wait patiently for him to kill them from a safe distance. In the case of bears especially, the bows he could possibly afford could never pierce the thick skull of a brown bear, leaving the heart the only option for an instant kill. The chances of this were slim even had he the money to afford the endless practice it would require, and after the missed shot the bear would charge him, and he would come into close combat regardless.

So, he had 'purchased' an old and rust-crusted but still relatively sharp gladius from the Black Hammer Forge in Stonebridge. At the time, the proprietor informed him it would take a miracle to slay a bear with a sword like this more than once, as it would surely shatter should it encounter any actual resistance. The man had absolutely refused to take any payment for the weapon he had been about to throw out.

Said he, "It's a crime against the kingdom to rob a man's grave, you know. With that sword in hand and intent to kill a bear, you are a dead man walking. How could I bill you for your own demise?"

The shopkeep had been more than willing, however, to accept payment for the unfinished leather armor the farmer had wanted to buy. Better protection far than decorative leather meant for clothing, but not as effective as true leather armor; it was all the farmer could afford.

That had been three years before this day, and the tanned and mowhawk-ed man had slain countless wolves and a dozen bears with what he'd bought that trip. Despite the shopkeeper's assurance the blade would fail him, with constant cleaning and sharpening, the blade held true for as long as he held it in his hand. The shopkeeper had been so wrong, in fact, that it was stolen before it broke.

About a month earlier, he'd realized his armor and his gladius had vanished in the night. He was furious. He spent the entire day storming through the rocky highlands to meet with each and every one of his neighbors, demanding they tell him if they'd seen anyone suspicious in the past few days. They all said they hadn't, and he'd put aside his anger in favor of fervent farming—rather, fervent messing with his farm. There wasn't all that much he could do in the summer months, but he'd be damned if he didn't try.

The young farmer realized he had begun scowling from his remembrance of the theft, and began to vainly hoe at the ground, desperate to feel he was accomplishing something.

Suddenly, his lazy sheepdog began barking like mad. Startled, the tattoo-scalped man looked to his animal friend, trying to determine the source of his distress. The dog had not had any sheep to herd his entire life, as the only livestock there was really room for in the wooded, mountainous terrain was chickens, which hardly needed guidance, never really moving more than ten feet in a day. As such, the dog barked perhaps only once a month, normally in response to one of his neighbors crossing the wooden footbridge on his property.

As such, after making sure his dog wasn't in danger, he swung his head to the front of his farm, and saw his very-old old-friend and neighbor, Norrick, limping towards him. Initially he did not see the limp, nor the blood, and was about to shout and wave at his elderly companion. Norrick had been a legionnaire in his youth, before an injury that was never properly healed left him in agony when wearing heavy legion armor. Norrick's tales of valor and glory colored the farmer's childhood, and, as his parents had been killed in an accident when he was still a lad of less than ten years, the bald old farmer filled the role of teacher and guardian for the distraught youngster.

When Norrick weakly yelled, "Atlan! Atlan," before coughing desperately, the farmer, Atlan, dropped his hoe and sprinted toward the only man he thought of as family.

"Norrick!" he shouted as he ran. He saw Norrick clutching his side as he limped. Had he been stabbed? Beaten? Was it an animal, or a person?

"What in the name of Azunai the Defender happened, Norrick?!" Atlan bellowed as he reached his clearly dying friend, who collapsed as they both arrived at the footbridge.

"The krug, are attacking!" Norrick panted. "I couldn't, hold them back."

As Norrick fell into a coughing fit, Atlan frantically thought out loud, "Dear Azunai, you're spurting blood like a fountain! What do we do, what do we do? I ran out of healing potions months ago, and I've never been able to use magic, oh dear Azunai, lend me your strength! What do I do, Norrick?!"

Seemingly nearing a moment of respite in his fit, Norrick's hand shot out with surprising speed and grabbed the much younger farmer's arm. He stopped coughing long enough to calm the boy's—man's—panic, explaining, "You have long been my friend, Atlan, but you can do nothing more for old Norrick."

Atlan, for the first time since his parents died, had fear in his eyes. Not panic, as he'd had up until now, not desperation, not hopelessness, not despair. Fear. Because there was nothing he could do. Norrick's life or death was completely out of his hands; he was afraid. He wanted to speak, opened and closed his mouth, tightened his vocal cords as if he were about to say something, but his mind was blank. The only words he spoke were erratic bits of air escaping as he tried to formulate some comfort for his oldest friend.

The trust in Norrick's eyes did not escape Atlan. Nor did the boundless pride. Nor the hope. He could not understand why there was no sorrow, no anger, no anxiety. Only the love a father had for his child.

"Go to Stonebridge," Norrick gasped. "Find Gyorn."

Atlan wanted to say he would, absolutely, but his throat tightened as tears filled out his eyes, and no words left his lips.

"If the krug have elsewhere betrayed us, your bravery will be needed, by the king!"

What?! This was a job for the legion, not a farmer! This was what Atlan thought in his mind, but his body betrayed him, as he forced out a single shouted word with unintended fervor.

"YES!"

Norrick smiled for the last time. He had wanted to say all manner of things to the man he had come to love as he would've a son, wanted to tell him how proud he was, how much he cared. But he felt his time come, and he knew he would not last through it.

Norrick softened his eyes as he dying cried, "Go!"

Atlan inhaled sharply. Norrick really was going to die.

"Now..." the ex-legionnaire could only whisper his last instruction, before he was gone.

Tears ran red hot down Atlan's cheeks as he struggled to keep from sobbing, his face twisted beyond recognition by the effort. He knelt, defeated, as he closed his beloved friend's eyes. There would not be time for a funeral, or even a burial, it seemed. The krug had caused Norrick to die, and the urgency their betrayal would bring would cause Norrick's corpse to rot until the situation was settled. The man had no kin, like Atlan, so there was no one to pay his burial costs or bury him themselves, save Atlan, who would soon be busy fulfilling Norrick's last request.

Norrick believed the matter was urgent enough that he spent his last words on impressing this on Atlan, so Atlan, soon as he could blink the tears from his eyes, stood up, and ran into his house.

He scooped up every last coin he had to his name, hidden in various spots, shoved them in an empty pack, rounded up all his jerky, found his waterskin, and grabbed his knife from the table. He had only ever used it to eat with, but he supposed it was close enough to a sword. He would've used his pitchfork as a weapon, but it barely pierced a bale of hay anymore, and a krug was decidedly tougher than that, even rather flimsy as they were. If only he had his sword and his leather! He had half a mind that the krug had stolen his arms and armor in advance for their attack, but there was no way they do such a thing. Not because they would think it wrong, or think it pointless, but because they could barely think at all. The smartest among them could barely use the simplest of spells—though that was better than him, Atlan supposed. He slung the pack across his back, the weight nothing to him after years in the hot sun, working.

He went next to his sheepdog, still lazing, and knew he had a tough choice to make. His dog was old, nearing the end of his life, and he was not very fast, or very ferocious. He didn't dream of using him in his fight against the krug; he didn't think the dog could even hunt his own food. He felt immense guilt at both options he saw. He could let the poor dog wonder where his master was until he starved to death, unless the business with the krug was less serious than expected, and either he or some other farmer returned for him. Or he could kill the dog now and spare him any suffering, and risk coming to find he could have left him alive. He had no time to think. He had to trust his gut.

He hid the knife behind his right arm, his better arm, as he walked to his dog, who surprised him by actually standing up and bounding to him. Atlan offered his open left hand to the dog, who licked it affectionately. Atlan slid his hand to the dog's head, and scratched behind his ears.

He couldn't do it. What right had he to guess if this dog could survive on his own?

He spoke, "Vrun, you were the finest friend a man could ask for. Where I'm going, you cannot follow. Do not eat the chickens too quickly, and remember to drink water from the stream when you are thirsty. This is goodbye. I'll see you in a while, if I see you again."

Vrun the sheep-less sheepdog barked once before laying back down, and Atlan pretended it was a bark of agreement. It was the only way he could leave without an overly heavy heart.

With that, he set off. He had to walk a few minutes before he saw what Norrick was talking about. He saw a dozen of the grey krug—called scavengers, if his memory served—and he knew why Norrick said he couldn't hold them off. Norrick was an old man, and had an injury that never healed properly. Even against the weakest of the krug, Norrick couldn't fend off a dozen foes.

Luckily, Atlan was stronger, faster, and hardier than Norrick, and krug were as dumb as they were ugly. The grey ones were slow as anything, too. Atlan didn't remember if it was because they were malnourished, being scavengers, or if they just weren't as quick as the others by birth, or what, but he knew as much about the krug as any highlander did. The grey ones are slow, the brown ones are fast. The armored ones are strong, the robed ones are mages. And they're all stupid.

The krug were breaking whatever they saw, trampling on crops, holding torches and bashing the barn with them, not realizing they had already accomplished their fiery intent, continuing to beat an already burning building.

He supposed their eyesight was about as good as their coordination, because he came upon one of them, alone, and it only noticed him after his knife was lodged in its throat.

"Azunai, these things are ugly," Atlan noted quietly to himself as he inspected the creature's weapon. It was a tree branch—and not a very strong or heavy one, at that.

The thing's face was barely even humanoid, more closely resembling a skull than an actual face. Its mouth was more a mismatched collection of large fangs protruding past what would be lips on any other people of Aranna. Its nose was simply two massive nostrils even larger than a human's nose was, and like a skeleton, it just opened parallel to its face. Its ears were not even visible from the front, and Atlan did not feel the need to search for them. Its eyes were red and beady, and it was hairless.

He wasn't sure why the krug were given the distinction of being called people. The other beings called people, he understood, even if he'd never met any. Elves, dwarves, droog, dryads, half giants, and even goblins, as he believed it, were all possessed of an intelligence roughly equal to each other and humans. This was what he felt made them people. These krug, however, did not seem to possess more intelligence than his dog. They barely understood fire-just because a few could speak a few words did not make them as a species intelligent. He had heard of birds that could mimic speech. If those birds were to lose their wings and walk upon two legs, would they be declared people as well?

He then wondered, quite briefly, if these thoughts made him racist. He decided it didn't particularly matter, since he would have to kill them either way.

None of the other krug had noticed their compatriot fall. Perhaps this would be easier than he thought.

Atlan walked furtively towards another one, who had just broken a gate with surprising strength. He walked towards it from behind, but it stopped and turned around for no real reason he could see. It saw him, and instead of raising any sort of alarm, it tried to attack the human in front of it.

While it may have been strong, its swing wasn't very fast, and Atlan easily dodged the... Was that a chair leg?

Before the krug could recover from the missed strike, Atlan kicked it in the stomach, sending it hard to the ground. With a fury, he leapt on the creature, stabbing it until it made no more noise.

In eliminating the rest of the krug, each encounter went much the same, until the last two could not be separated, and he had to take them both down at once. Even this was not very difficult, as he could easily out run them. They knew of no way to use their numbers to their advantage, merely advancing towards him as fast as possible, which was quite slow, indeed. This allowed him to run in, strike one, and run away before they could retaliate. A few more strikes and they were done.

Once again, Atlan wished he had his gladius and his leather. Either one, really. With a real weapon he could have easily cleaved the flimsy grey krug in twain, with his armor he would not fear their swings.

Alas, none had been wearing armor, and none of their weapons were better than his knife. One of them had actually tried to bash him with a bow that could only have been made by one of his neighbors as a joke. It was little more than a stick and twine, and there were no arrows. Even were it a viable weapon, the krug had accidentally smashed it to pieces upon the ground when Atlan dodged the attack.

Atlan sighed in remembrance of the incredible stupidity of the krug, before looking back at his farm one last time.

Wordlessly, he sauntered forth down the rocky path, focusing only on what lay ahead. He needed to cross the small bridge connecting his area on the mountain to that of his neighbors, see who yet lived, and eventually make it to the bridge to Stonebridge-although that bridge, and indeed all bridges near Stonebridge, was made of wood. The town was named after Etan Stonebridge, an extremely rich merchant who lived long ago, and not after any actual bridge that he'd ever seen.

What lay ahead was a few more grey krug hiding in a bush with worthless weapons, and a skrubb. He annihilated the krug as he had the others, before turning his attention to the weird many-legged burrowing animal. Luckily, it was just the farm variety, and its acid spit was easily dodged. It did not attack the krug, for some reason. Atlan had seen quite a few skrubbs, and they tended to attack the first thing they saw, regardless of their ability to kill it. So why had it not attacked the krug? Was it on their side? Did they bring it there? But how could the idiot krug do something so complicated?

His pondering was short-lived, as a couple more grey krug slowly charged across the bridge. Instead of fighting them, Atlan simply kicked them right off the sides. They were too stupid to understand they could fall, and so when he kicked them, they didn't even attempt to stay on the bridge. They probably didn't understand that the bridge was different from solid ground, and assumed they could just get back up. They obviously couldn't, and the extended length of time it took for Atlan to hear their bodies smash against the rocks below reminded him just how high up he was.

He gulped.

After crossing the bridge, he trekked through the forest path, fighting off several more krug, before a brown krug charged at him. This krug used a blunt dagger, and was much more human in its speed. Atlan defeated it, sidestepping and stabbing it through where he assumed its heart was. With the blunt dagger as his new weapon, he tucked his knife in his boot and continued on.

He encountered one of his dead neighbors' corpses, and helped himself to the man's extremely tattered leather armor. Most of the key areas were unprotected, but it was better than nothing. It only fit because it was mostly non-existent. He wondered if the armor was originally at least somewhat destroyed, or if its current condition was due entirely to the krug.

He even encountered hostile phraks, giant flying insects that normally didn't attack people.

Stabbing a phrak through the eyes wasn't too difficult, as its proboscis was unwieldy, and easily warded off with his new blunt dagger.

About halfway to his closest neighbor's house, he came across two brown krug, who charged him. This was his toughest battle yet, but he won by using his 'armor' to deflect one krug's cudgel while he killed the other, then taking care of the cudgel wielder.

Krug continually assaulted him, but he was getting better and better at fighting the little buggers. Even three brown krug at once were not his match any longer.

After half an hour, Atlan finally made it to the first house on the path to Stonebridge. Just before he arrived, he discovered a strange dog, with a mouth filled with incisors, which was faster and stronger than the krug, but its reach meant he could kick it away before it got to him.

The owner of the house was dead, and his house was filled with krug, but one significant gain was to be had: a shield.

One of the krug had used both hands to bash with a rust-covered metal buckler, and when the krug was killed, Atlan found that although the face was rusted, the leather straps still worked.

"Thank Azunai," he remarked.

With a shield, his fights became a lot easier. This was because krug were too stupid to avoid the shield, simply attacking directly in front of them. The rusted metal buckler was still more than strong enough to defend the attacks of the krug, and when they bounced off it, they were wide open to Atlan's assault.

Mowing his way through the farm, killing krug and krug dogs, all similar to the first dog he had come across. Had the krug domesticated these dogs?

At the other end of the farm, Atlan spotted a phrak that shot magic spikes. There were others like it, but this one was enormous. It would have been a tough fight earlier, but with his shield, it was simple.

As he was about to leave the farm, he spotted something that made him smile.

A sharp pitchfork.

It was next to the owner of the farm, who had died wielding it. That meant it was his for the taking.

Makeshift spear in one hand, shield on the other, he began on the path to Edgaar's house, toward Stonebridge.

But then he saw something.

A track.

A bear track.

He knew he shouldn't tangle with it. There was no point. He knew, but still... He followed the track. Back through the farm, through a bit of woods, and into a cave. He crept in the entrance, and saw a sleeping brown bear.

He had one shot.

He took a blunt dagger from his not, and stepped as lightly as he could toward the bear.

He stabbed at its head... and the dagger bounced off.

"Defender, take you!" he cursed, as the bear roared.

He grabbed his pitchfork, and jumped back, putting a little distance between himself and the bear. The bear rushed towards him with surprising speed, and he thrust his pitchfork at the same time.

The result was that the bear practically impaled itself on the spear, the long tines burrowing through its fatty neck, piercing its windpipe and a major artery. It was dead in seconds.

An exhausted laugh later, the victor removed his weapon from the loser's body.

Atlan was about to leave when he noticed what the bear had been sleeping on.

"My armor!" he cried.

The tanned young man walked over to his armor and put it on. There was no doubt it was his, as it bore the familiar gashes and small tears on its well oiled surface. A bite from a wolf on the left leg, four marks from a bear swat on the left side.

"A bear stole my armor? That... That doesn't make any sense!" he lamented.

"Did he steal my sword, too?" he added, hopefully.

He went all the way to the back of the cave and back, looking carefully, but there was only bones. No gladius.

"Azunai preserve me," he curse-prayed.

Still, the farmer was grateful for his armor. It was several layers of thick leather, stitched together, torso and legs. It would protect from the slash of a sword-or the bite of a wolf. Now, with the betrayal of the krug, it would protect from whatever 'weapons' they managed to find.

Once again he found himself walking down the path to his neighbor Edgaar's house, which was on the way to Stonebridge.

More of the same foes filled the well trod path, but with his armor back, he disposed of them without the slightest difficulty. Krug, grey and brown, krug dogs, phraks, and a few skrubbs. Nothing he couldn't handle. He made his way to Edgar's door, which he was surprised to find locked. Edgaar was still alive?

"Edgaar!" he shouted as he banged on the door with his fist. "Edgaar, it's me! Atlan!"

After a few seconds, he heard the bolt click, and the door swung inwards, revealing a very exhausted Edgaar, bleeding from a gash on the left of his ribcage, awfully close to his heart. The aging man none-the-less showed a weak smile to his younger neighbor.

He motioned Atlan to come in, before he closed the door and locked it. Atlan had to step over two brown krug corpses just to make it to the center of the room.

"Edgaar, I'm headed to town," the younger man informed the older. "I'm glad you're alright."

Edgaar laughed once, without humor, and said, "I should've guessed the Highland Drake would be cleaving his way to Stonebridge. I hope you find out what's got the krug all stirred up. They may need your help."

'The Highland Drake,' or just 'Drake,' was a nickname given to Atlan by his neighbors. There were several types of drakes, but Atlan didn't know any of them. However, his neighbors had seen fit to name him after the mythical beasts, likely to make themselves feel safer. Who would not feel better being protected by a lesser dragon? He did not think he deserved the nickname, and it bothered him originally, but he had heard it so much that it no longer fazed him when he heard it.

"If you have a few minutes to help an old neighbor," Edgaar began to ask, "then I have a favor to ask, Drake."

Without thinking, Drake answered, "Yes? What is it?"

Edgaar laughed again without emotion, before explaining, "When I realized the krug were actually attacking us, I tried to get to the safety of my cellar, but they had a little welcome-party waiting for me."

He looked Drake in the eyes and suggested, "If you need supplies for the trek to Stonebridge, and wouldn't mind clearing out the rest of the krug downstairs, you can help yourself to whatever you need from my stores."

Drake thought to himself before asking, "Have you got any health potions?"

Edgaar grinned deprecatingly and gestured to his wound.

"What do you think?"

Drake shook his head in realization of his foolishness. After a few seconds, he asked, "Are you alright?"

Edgaar sat down on his bed and put his head in his hands for a few moments.

"I didn't think they had it in them to raise a hand against us," he mused out loud, before shaking his head and laughing hopelessly. "I guess I was wrong."

He looked to Drake and told him, "Don't worry about me, Drake. Once you've cleared the krug from my basement, I should be able to stay safe until this whole thing passes."

"Alright then," Drake accepted, before heading out the door.

He made his way towards the cellar as he heard the lock being reset on the front door.

Without giving himself time to question his actions, the Drake of the Highlands opened the twin doors leading down into the cellar, favoring his shield as he tried to let his eyes readjust to the growing darkness. Torches had been lit, but it was still darker than optimal.

Drake had enough time to wonder if krug could see in the dark before two brown ones charged at him, one with a bone of some animal, the other with another chair leg.

Drake offered up a quick prayer for his deceased neighbor for keeping his pitchfork sharpened.

Looking around the room, Drake saw a few shelves, but the krug had destroyed most of what was in there. He did, however, find a pair of durable gloves. He hadn't thought he would need gloves when he left his farm, as it would have made wielding his knife much harder. Now that he was using a larger weapon, however, he could easily trade more protection for a little dexterity.

He'd begin to blister soon, anyways.

There was another, smaller room off the left of this one, and a group of three grey krug occupied it briefly, before a pitchfork entered each of them in succession. This room had several boxes within it, but the only notable find was another pair of leather gloves, which Drake stowed in his pack for when his current gloves needed to be replaced.

He almost turned around and left the cellar to notify Edgaar, but he noticed a metal grate on the floor.

"Hmm?" he sounded aloud.

"Aha!" he declared, as he stood on the grate, and pushed an easy to miss stone button on the wall with the back of his pitchfork.

The grate turned out to be an elevator of sorts, and it began to descend. How it worked, Atlan, the Highland Drake, had no idea.

He looked down, and wanted to strangle Edgaar.

He was about to descend into a crowd of more than five krug at once.

And one of them was twice as big as any krug he'd ever seen.


	2. Crypt of the Sacred Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atlan makes his way to Stonebridge, only to find he will need to travel through the Crypt of Sacred Blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't nearly as good as the first chapter, mostly because I didn't spend literal years writing it. Still, I think it's pretty good. As good as it can be before we meet the first companion.

**Last time:**

He almost turned around and left the cellar to notify Edgaar, but he noticed a metal grate on the floor.

"Hmm?" he sounded aloud.

"Aha!" he declared, as he stood on the grate, and pushed an easy to miss stone button on the wall with the back of his pitchfork.

The grate turned out to be an elevator of sorts, and it began to descend. How it worked, Atlan, the Highland Drake, had no idea.

He looked down, and wanted to strangle Edgaar.

He was about to descend into a crowd of five krug at once.

And one of them was twice as big as any krug he'd ever seen.

**Now:**

As he started the slow descent, the giant grey krug gave Drake a shock when he began to speak. Krug weren't often able to do that.

"Heheh," it laughed in its deep, gravelly voice. "I Brankar."

"Yeah?" Drake responded in a low tone. Those who knew him well knew that this tone meant he was serious.

The thing laughed again as Drake approached the end of the shaft, before it stated, "I no ask you name."

Drake brought his shield up and grasped his pitchfork firmly, asking slowly, "Why not?"

The grey krug laughed extremely loudly, as it shouted, "You dead! HAHAHA!"

The sub-basement was a square room with a hallway leading nowhere directly behind the grey krug.

There was a brown krug in each of the four corners of the room, but he couldn't outmaneuver them in the first place--they were too fast.

The grey krug--Brankar, if its words were to be believed--was at least a head taller than its brethren, and with a similar amount of extra width. It wielded a small chuck in its right hand, its left gripped firmly into a fist. Given what he knew about krug, he did _not_ want to get hit with that thing.

A 'chuck' was a nickname for a small hand axe--short for 'woodchuck.' It wasn't made to chop down trees, but rather to remove branches, hence its diminutive size. However, from the glean on its edge, Drake knew this one, unlike most 'found' weaponry of the krug, was actually sharp.

Of course, knowing all that wasn't particularly helpful in forming a strategy.

But he also knew something that _was_ helpful:

The old saying.

" _Grey krug are slow, brown krug are fast. Armoured krug are strong, clothed krug are mages."_

"And they're all stupid!" he shouted the end of the saying as the elevator met the floor.

Sprinting past the confused Brankar, Drake quickly turned around and shoved the pitchfork through the back of its slowly turning neck.

It was hard. The points of the pitchfork seemed to bend as they entered the neck of the krug, and red sprayed everywhere.

Brankar choked on its own blood as Drake quickly wrenched the chuck out of its weakening grip.

With the new weapon, the four remaining brown krug were quickly dispatched.

As the final enemy drew its last breath, Drake stopped to catch his. Looking around, his eyes gravitated to the corpse of Brankar.

Clenched in its fist was a scrap of lambskin that glowed green--a spell! Had this krug been holding onto this spell the whole time it fought?

"What in Azunai's name would a krug like this be doing with a spell, anyway?" Drake wondered out loud as he transferred the eight gold pieces Brankar had into his pack.

"Well, I suppose I'll take it with me, though I don't have a spellbook to put it in. I wonder what it says. Maybe I can sell it in Stonebridge."

Drake mumbled as he surveyed the mess.

Every barrel and crate in the sub-basement had been smashed open, and whatever food had been stored in them was long eaten.

There was a pair of nice leather boots, though, and Drake decided he had earned them.

"Azunai," Drake complained to himself, "I killed a damned monster of a krug that Edgaar really should have warned me about, a pair of boots is the absolute least I've earned."

Walking into the suspiciously empty hallway, Drake stopped in his tracks.

There, behind a disgusting amount of cobwebs, was a doorway on the far wall. He could clearly see the arch in the stone, even though the wall seemed solid.

"A false wall? Maybe the krug are dumb enough not to check that, but Azunai damn you, Edgaar, I'm not letting you live this one down."

Pushing on the stones, Drake felt them move. There really was a room back here.

Pushing harder, the false wall finally collapsed, revealing a room filled with even more horrible cobwebs.

There wasn't much in there besides wine, really, but Drake was not going to let Edgaar slide. He was taking _something_. Even if that wagon wheel leaning against the wall was the only other thing that wasn't destroyed, by the Defender, he was taking something.

Luckily, he did find something else, although it wasn't any more useful to him than the wine or the wagon wheel.

On a shelf he found another spell, but this one glowed orange instead of green. He briefly wondered what the difference was, but as Drake did not possess the ability to read, he didn't even bother looking at it and simply grumbled as he stuck the scrap of lambskin in his pack with the other one.

Finally, there was nothing left to check but one last storage locker. The rest had all been empty, so Drake did not have his hopes up. Opening it carelessly, his eyes widened in surprise.

"Jackpot!" he exclaimed with almost childlike glee.

Folded up nicely on the floor of the locker was a shirt and skirt of studded leather armor. Actual armor!

Lifting it up, Drake felt his heart sink a tiny bit when he realized it was torn fairly severely in places, but it was still miles ahead of his unfinished leather. Leather which was also ripped fairly badly in places, he reminded himself.

He quickly exchanged his armor for the new, er, old, set he had just found, and went off to exit the basement.

His heart leapt in his chest a tiny bit when the lever next to the elevator seemed not to do anything, but it only took a second before he started ascending once more.

Leaving the cellar with a new weapon and new armor, Drake felt like he had really accomplished something.

Ignoring the urge to crack his knuckles menacingly, Drake opened the door to Edgaar's house.

Looking in, Drake saw the corpses of krug, and suddenly remembered Edgaar's serious wounds. Perhaps he hadn't told him of the talking krug because he simply hadn't made it that far. Edgaar didn't have any reason to send him in unprepared. He would've told him everything he could. He felt guilt slowly creep up his spine as he entered the house.

Closing the door, Drake took off his pack before leaning his back against the sturdy wood as he sighed.

"There was a talking krug in the sub-basement, Edgaar," he bluntly explained. "Damn thing was enormous. If it wasn't grey, it might've split me in half."

Edgaar snapped his head over to Drake, faster than Drake had ever seen him do... anything, really. His perpetually tired voice was flooded with remorse as he exclaimed in shock, "Defender alive! Truly, a talking krug? Had I known that, I would've never sent you down there, Drake. I'm glad you made it out safe and sound."

The balding man looked at his young neighbor more closely, perhaps to make sure he was _truly_ safe and sound, and laughed humorlessly when he noticed the torn leather he was wearing, "I forgot I had that armor down there. Azunai be praised. It never fit me, anyway--it must be providence. The Defender is looking out for you, Drake."

Drake managed a smile. It was a comforting thought. Maybe Azunai really had a hand in protecting him?

"Many thanks for clearing out the krug, my friend."

"It was no trouble, Edgaar," Drake denied. "Turned out to be no trouble, anyway."

Edgaar shook his head in muted shock, "If they're coming after farmers in our own homes, I don't doubt you'll battle many more on your journey to Stonebridge; you'd best be on your way."

"Aye," Drake agreed.

"Watch out for yourself, and don't worry about me; I've enough supplies in the cellar to keep me going until this blows over."

Shifting his new chuck to his left hand, the militant farmer rubbed the back of his scalp nervously, brushing up against his mohawk.

"About that…" Drake mumbled sheepishly. "The krug seemed to have eaten most of your food. There's really only wine left--and that's only because the krug didn't notice your false wall in the sub-basement."

Finally giving the young man a genuine smile, Edgaar laughed and said, "What did you think I meant by supplies?"

Giving a laugh, Drake turned to open the door.

As he left, he said without turning, "Defender watch over you, Edgaar."

Before he closed the door behind him, he heard Edgar say, "May he watch over us all."

* * *

Not forgetting what Norrick had told him--to find Gyorn in Stonebridge--Drake trudged on, taking down krug and krug dogs, phraks and skrubbs as he did.

There was more of the same for half a mile, until Drake noticed a clearing on his left. There was a large cave opening not far from the road, and he could already see three brown krug messing with each other.

Deciding he may as well clear out the cave while he was here, Drake moved quietly towards it.

The three krug at the entrance noticed him and started tearing towards him without a sound.

Making quick work of the ugly creatures, the farmer moved into the cave.

The cave was rather roomy, and only a few crates were in the part he could see. Unfortunately, he could also see a rather big problem that was moving towards him rather quickly.

It was another giant krug--and this one was brown. It was quicker than its grey counterpart, but slower than the ordinary brown ones.

"I Klandank," it spoke, with a voice higher in pitch than Brankar's. "You fight!"

It yelled incoherently as it charged Drake, who readied his shield.

The thing was holding a blunt dagger, and hopefully being able to speak didn't teach it how to properly use the stabbing weapon.

Drake wordlessly raised his rusty buckler to block the wayward slash of Klandank.

"And they're all stupid," he muttered, stunned at the accuracy of the saying.

The idiotic krug was wielding a blunt dagger, but instead of stabbing with it, he was hacking down with it like an axe. Drake would have to stand there and let himself be pummeled to death to lose to this thing.

Blocking a third blow, Drake whipped forward and caught Klandank in the side of the neck with his chuck, but the fight wasn't over.

Klandank screamed in pain and threw the dagger to the side, intending to punch the farmer to death.

A shield to the face dazed it, and another blow from the chuck widened its already massive neck wound. Klandank sank to the ground as he lost too much blood to remain conscious.

It was dead within seconds.

Wiping the sweat off his forehead, Drake took a breather. He drank deeply from his waterskin before sighing.

Looking into the rest of the cave provided a new first for the young man.

A misshapen krug wearing clothes was mumbling at him.

Wincing briefly at the hideous neckless atrocity, Drake's thoughts turned to the saying.

"You're a mage, huh? Think you're smarter than me, just because I can't do magic? Maybe I'm not cut out to be a sorcerer, but there's no way I'm dumber than you!"

The only reply was more bizarre mumbling.

Drake thought it might be casting a spell--he'd only ever seen a spell being cast one time, before his parents died, and he didn't remember it very well.

All he knew about magic was that you needed a spellbook and a spell, and apparently he couldn't do it.

Evidently, whatever the mumbling _was,_ it _wasn't_ magic.

Because the next instant, the clothed krug came barreling toward him, arms raised, and started trying to punch him.

Easily avoiding the clumsy blows, Drake plunged his chuck into the place the head and body of the krug met--the place that should have been its neck--and the krug went down.

Finding nothing else in the cave, beyond some farm skrubbs hiding in the back and several empty crates and barrels, Drake headed back into the daylight.

Another few miles and as many hundred krug, and Drake had made it to the wood bridge to Stonebridge.

Sort of.

He could see some of the bridge, but most of it was missing. And what was still there was blackened and smoking.

Seeing one of his neighbors, Drake yelled, "Skartis!"

As he jogged up to the older man, he added, "What happened?"

Skartis shook his head and put his hand on his hip.

"Damnfool krug. I knew they was none too bright, but today, I seen everything."

"What did they do?" Drake asked exhaustedly.

"Take a look fer yerself, Drake. They torched this 'ere bridge, and then set to drivin' a wagon caravan across't _while_ it was still a-burnin'!"

Drake looked over the edge of the cliff, where he could just barely see a wagon and several dead krug.

He sighed and cursed, "Defender, take them."

Skartis shook his head again.

"Now the only way to Stonebridge is thataway," he pointed to the path to his left, "and that means goin' through the old Crypts to the road beyond."

"Of course it does," Drake sighed in exasperation. All he wanted was to get to Stonebridge and find Gyorn, but it couldn't be easy, could it?

Skartis visibly shivered and proclaimed, "You ain't gonna catch _me_ goin' that way."

"Any other day, I'd say the same, Skartis. But I gotta get to Stonebridge, and fast."

Skartis backed away slowly.

"Well, if anyone can get through there, it's you, Drake. You jus' make sure'n keep whatever's in there, in there."

"I'll try, Skartis. Azunai knows I'll try."

The two neighbors wordlessly parted.

"The Crypt of the Sacred Blood, huh?" Drake muttered to himself as he tried to recall what Norrick had told him about it.

_Just southwest of Stonebridge lies the Crypt of the Sacred Blood—site of one of the bloodiest battles of the Liberation, and the most honored burial place in all of Ehb._

_Interred there alongside the kings and queens of Ehb are the martyrs of Azunai and the heroes, commanders, and grand mages of the 10th Legion, many of whom fell during the last days of the War of Legions._

_The site was consecrated with the blood of the 10th Legion soldiers who sacrificed their lives to free Ehb during the Seck Rebellion._

_In a single day of battle, nearly a quarter of the Legion's forces died fighting a hardened corps of Seck warriors. Surveying the corpses strewn over the battlefield, Legion Commander Karese Noanni ordered the site cleared and excavated for a crypt._

" _By my oath, they shall be remembered and revered, or nothing we do hath a spark of honor in it. From this day forth, all that is achieved shall be purchased with the blood of these valiant hearts."_

_There is no greater honor than to be laid to rest in this sacred ground, and no greater duty than making a pilgrimage to pay respect to the heroes lying within._

That's what Norrick had said, but an adolescent Atlan did not memorize the information to any meaningful degree.

"If I'm remembering correctly, everybody who's anybody is buried in that place. And I'll bet the krug are in there right now."

Drake had never considered himself extraordinarily patriotic, but he certainly wasn't un-patriotic. The idea of the filthy krug stomping around that sacred place made his blood boil.

On his path to the Crypt, he soon encountered something strange.

The wolves were attacking.

They didn't look hungry, either. Something had them riled up, the the point that they would brazenly attack on a well blazed trail. This was not normal.

After being forced to kill nearly a pack of wolves, Drake made his way to the Life Shrine.

Drake didn't know who or what had made the Life Shrines that dotted the landscape of Aranna, but he sure was glad they did.

Small scrapes began to heal up when he stepped on the stone circle, the red light that came from nowhere seeming to fill him with energy.

Life Shrines could heal small injuries, and restore stamina, but they couldn't save lives. Healers were very well respected for exactly this reason. Health potions drastically increased the body's natural recovery, and life shrines were a step up from that. Magic could heal most injuries, and the stronger the spell, the more deadly the injury it could heal. 

If only he could cast magic. If only he was a healer. Then Norrick might've...

Even still, Drake offered up a prayer to Azunai the Defender, along with whoever had made the shrines.

The next thing the farmer came across was a krug encampment, complete with another abomination in clothes. Once again, the thing mumbled excessively before proceeding to ram into him.

Looking around the camp, Drake failed to find any bedrolls or tents, things he would need if the Crypt was as far from Stonebridge as he thought.

What he did find were phraks trapped in wooden cages. How had the krug managed to do this? They must have had help. But why?

Killing the phraks--well, setting the phraks free and then being forced to kill them--Drake stopped thinking about the krug. He was no scholar, after all. He had a strong sword arm, and that was all it took to kill krug.

Following the path up a small hill, he noticed an offshoot he hadn't seen the last time he'd come on a pilgrimage.

A few brown krug were congregating around the statue of an angel.

After Drake killed them, he could have sworn he heard some sort of singing in the back of his head.

"What were they messing with this statue for?" he wondered aloud.

There was a faded plaque on the base of the statue--not that he would've been able to read it anyway.

Brushing his fingers over it, the angel started to swivel on its pedestal.

"Blood!" Drake spat in surprise as he jumped back. With his new vantage point, he noticed that stairs were beginning to appear in the ground, slowly revealing a passageway.

"Defender preserve me," he whispered in awe as the archway was fully revealed.

Looking behind him, he determined there were no krug, and so he walked down into the passageway.

What greeted him were two small gargoyle statues on either side of a hallway.

As he walked past them however, he quickly realized that they were not statues at all, but rather actual gargoyles, who he had woken up, and were now trying to kill him.

"Forgive me!" Drake shouted to no one in particular as he smashed the protectors to pieces. They weren't hard to kill, though one had scratched his cheek pretty bad.

"Maybe I shouldn't keep going?" he questioned, as he rubbed his wound, noting how close he came to losing an eye.

Shaking his head, he reaffirmed, "No, I'm going. I don't care what gargoyles you throw at me, I'm taking a closer look."

The room he was in had more stairs which led down, into a hallway filled with water, about knee level.

He walked down into the flooded hallway, taking note of two stone pipes that seemed to be draining water into the place.

"Now, what are those for?" he wondered. The place didn't seem to be leaking anywhere else, which meant that the two pipes were what were flooding the hallway. "Why would you intentionally flood a hallway?"

It wasn't long before he reached the end of the hallway, which opened up into a room.

Drake cautiously entered what seemed to be the final chamber, but was blindsided by two gargoyles anyway.

As he jumped back to avoid the gargoyles, he noticed that they had fired projectiles at the place he used to be.

He threw up his shield and charged, hoping to end the altercation before it got any worse.

The two gargoyles converged on his previous spot, and threw green shards of _something_ with their tiny arms.

One shard hit Drake's shield and shattered harmlessly, but one slipped past, and buried itself in his right shoulder.

Pain flooded his system, and before he saw what happened, he was staring at the shattered remains of the two green-eyed 'goyles.

Examining his wound, which was suspiciously free of the projectile that caused it, Drake determined it was only a flesh wound, as the leather armor had done its job.

Surveying the room, Drake found no trace of whatever the gargoyles had thrown at him, and so he quickly honed in on the only interesting thing.

A large angel statue sat in the middle of the room--identical to the one that had opened this place. It was illuminated by torches, but somehow the light in the room was not the fiery red glow one might expect. Magic was obviously at play, here.

The plaque of this one was not worn down, but Drake still could not read it.

Shrugging, he rolled his shoulder a few times, and brushed his fingers across it the same way he had the first.

Like the first, it swiveled on its pedestal, but Drake was ready this time.

However, no door seemed to open, as he had expected.

Instead, two platforms opened up to his left and right, and up from under the floor came two horrors.

"Defender's blood!" Drake yelled in shock.

A walking skeleton slowly creaked over to him from either side of the room.

They were slow, much slower than the grey krug, slower even than Brankar, but even so they looked deadly. Something told the Highland Drake that the skeletons' arms were not nearly as slow as their legs.

Taking a step back, Drake calmed himself. They were slow, so he had a chance to examine them.

One had what looked like an old, warped, flanged mace in its hand, which it hefted menacingly as it walked. The other had both hands on a bladed staff, a green handle with two curved blades on either end.

Neither looked particularly friendly, but Drake wanted that mace, _bad_. Bent though the flanges were, that mace was still the most dangerous weapon Drake had ever had access to. 

Taking several deep breaths as he decided on a plan, Drake flew towards the mace-wielding skeleton and chopped at its elbow joint with all he was worth, running past the slow undead as he did.

The skull of the creature clacked in displeasure, but Drake only had eyes for the skeletal arm on the ground. Or, what the arm was holding, at any rate.

"Azunai the _bloody_ Defender be praised, I can't believe that _actually_ worked!" Drake exclaimed as he grabbed his prize off the ground.

He held the mace in his hand, feeling its weight. He readied his shield and his new weapon as the one armed skeleton closed in on him slowly.

With a yell, Drake smashed the weaponless skeleton's head with its former weapon, and the skull shattered into pieces.

As the now-headless skeleton collapsed into a pile of bones, Drake turned to face the staff-wielding skeleton.

Lifting his mace in the air, Drake said, "Come at me, you bag of bones."

The skeleton slowly complied, hobbling over with all the grace of a newborn deer, though its staff was catching the light in a mean way. 

"Alright Drake, be careful," Drake prepped himself.

Unfortunately, it wasn't quite as successful as he'd hoped.

Not quite dodging the blades of the staff as the enemy lunged towards him, Drake growled in pain as he swung his new mace, before running to the other side of the room.

He quickly made sure the skeleton was a safe distance a way before he checked his wound. Luckily, it wasn't too deep, as the blade of the staff had probably hit a stud in the leather before cutting through it.

"That was lucky," Drake breathed as sweat started forming on his forehead. "Thank Azunai Edgaar has always been a wide guy."

Lightly banging his mace against his rusty shield, he shook himself loose to prepare for the second round with the skeleton.

This time, Drake used his experience to fully dodge the swipe of the skeleton before crushing its skull to bits.

He shouted as the undead collapsed, sending the staff clattering to the ground.

Holding his side where the staff had grazed him, Drake applied pressure to the still bleeding wound before setting down his newly acquired mace on the angel statue.

Picking up the staff carefully with his free hand, he held out the weapon and felt it out.

He declared to the empty room, "It's really cool, but I'll probably just hurt myself with this thing. I'm not smart enough to use it."

Replacing the mace with the staff, Drake left the… wherever he was. Ruins, maybe?

* * *

Turned out, a flanged mace--even a bent one--was much better a caving in krug skulls than a chuck was at cutting them open. What had once taken two or three swipes, if he missed the neck, now took a single swing, maybe two if a brown krug could dodge the first.

By the time Drake reached the graveyard outside the entrance of the Crypt, the wound on his side had more or less stopped bleeding. Perhaps he could have returned to the Life Shrine, but he was worried he was wasting enough time already. Even without Krug, the Crypt was supposed to be a death trap. There was a reason no one was buried within it anymore, and that reason was not a lack of space.

It was lucky that his injuries from the ruin had mostly stopped bleeding, because Drake found himself face to face with another two skeletons, though these ones were considerably less well armed. Still, even a round headed iron mace could deal some serious damage, even if it had seen much better days, and so Drake was careful not to get hit.

After returning the two undead to the grave, Drake once again wondered where they came from, and why they seemed not to target the krug. It wasn't possible the krug had raised them, right? The ruin he could understand, but what were skeletons doing in the forest?

His blood ran cold as he realized the two skeletons he just destroyed might have been royalty buried in or around the Crypt of Sacred Blood. Azunai, if the krug are somehow turning the inhabitants of the Crypt into undead...

He was brought out of his thoughts as a fireball whizzed by his head.

Too spooked to even curse, Drake swung his head toward the direction the spell had come from.

He jumped to the side to avoid a second fireball as he searched for the source, eventually finding a clothed krug. Or a neckless krug, as he'd decided to call them.

"Wow, one that actually uses spells?" he exclaimed unintentionally.

"Well, spell, I guess," he amended, as the neckless krug shot yet another fireball.

Quickly realizing that the magical fire was rather slow, Drake moved around the flaming obstacle, running towards the krug.

The krug, perhaps realizing the futility of the spell, charged at Drake with the same reckless abandon the previous neckless krug had, to similar effect.

One swing of his mace put the krug's left arm out of commission, and a second took out the right. A third swing ended the monstrosity's suffering.

Drake searched for a spellbook, but couldn't find one. He didn't even find a spell. How had the thing been using magic without either? How had Brankar possessed a spell, but not this neckless krug who could actually perform magic?

Shaking his head, Drake suddenly let out a grunt of pleasant surprise, as he fished a small glass vial with a vibrant blue liquid inside out of the krug's primitive satchel.

Sure, it was only half full, but even this much of a mana potion had to be worth something, right?

Putting the treasure in his pack, Drake barely had time to raise his shield when a wolf nearly bowled him over.

Taking care of the wolf problem with a swift kick and a mace to the brain, the farmer quickly had to deal with several similar problems.

One of the wolves actually managed to bite his ankle, but his torn studded leather armor wasn't torn there, and proved sturdy enough to handle the wolf's jaws.

Finally, the area around the Crypt's entrance was clear. After Drake paid respects to those buried in the graveyard outside, he turned to look at the entryway of the Crypt.

"I'll never understand how a battle was supposedly fought here. The Crypt is underneath a damn mountain. How is it even possible?" he asked.

Of course, the only answer he received was several bats flying out of the crypt.

"It is getting quite dark," Drake realized. Bats were nocturnal, meaning if they were leaving the crypt, it was no longer daytime.

Staring at the entrance a while longer, Drake gathered his nerves and said a short prayer.

"Azunai the Defender, please grant me the strength of will to enter this Crypt. And once inside, I humbly ask your protection from whatever lay within."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, how was it? There are a lot of things in the game that make no sense, and I tried to make them make a little bit more sense. Next chapter will have the first female character in it, as well as the first new party member. She's my favorite character story wise, and maybe least favorite in the game, because she's just so incredibly weak. She actually makes the game harder, at least until you get to Stonebridge.
> 
> Additionally, every item that Atlan and eventually the rest of the party receive is an item I have actually received from that part of the game. I'm trying to make it as close as possible to the actual items I'm getting in my 'research run.' Only, I actually have been getting TOO lucky so far, to the point I'm finding it almost ridiculous. For example, in Edgaar's basement, Brankar usually drops naught, but in the hidden basement in the locker, you can normally get some gold and one good item. The best item you can get is Torn Leather, as every character can use it and any melee weapon you can get is only as good as the mace you can get from the skeleton in the hidden ruin. I was stunned when I got it in my research run. I was intending to have Atlan wear Atlan's armour for a little while longer, but torn leather is way better (10 vs 16 armor). The chuck actually dropped from a krug scout outside Edgaar's house, as did a copy of healing hands, but I changed it so it made more sense for the story. I believe Brankar actually dropped a chair leg. I also really did get the bent flanged mace from the skeleton. And would you believe I got second copy of healing hands before I even got to the Crypt? Holy hell.

**Author's Note:**

> Man, if anybody reads this, let me know.


End file.
